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Hunch? Theory? Opinion? Call it whatever you like, but I've got one.
"But opinions are like dog shit," I hear you say, "you notice it or you don't, but one time or another you always end up scraping one off your shoe."
Well, I can't deny a certain bouquet of truth in that, my friend, but if my little metaphorical poo-pile is correct I wouldn't bet on my being around long enough for the new government to steal any bread from my mouth.
But, like Rocky Balboa once said, "Only God ain't wrong Adrian." And like the big guy (God not Stallone), I don't believe I'm wrong either.
It's all about the light.
It's expanding you see, and if my hunch as to why stands up, I'm home free. If not, then I suppose I'm stuck with my faceless visitor.
He speaks to me from the blackness at the edge of the light; a disembodied harbinger of doom.
Socially speaking he's quite stupid and more irritating than thrush. But he's a killer and like it or not, you have to respect that, or at least fear it.
They've spent zillions trying to stop him; predicting those most vulnerable to his attack and forewarning them accordingly. Years and decades of hours have amassed, resulting in the longest, ongoing man-hunt in history.
But he moves with an instinctual guile that is, at the moment, impossible to predict entirely. So we do what we can to pollute his interest, to put him off the scent, to make ourselves less alluring to this killer's proclivities.
I did it all; took all the precautions, governed always by the knowledge somewhere in the depths of my mind that he might, one day, seek me out.
Yes, I feared him.
Right up until the time when I knew he'd killed me!